


You’ll Be There, You’ll Know

by hostagesfic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Distance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:32:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Love you, Curly.” Louis drags his fingertips round the narrow sides of his phone, wishing that they didn’t have to play this game of dittos and “you too’s” and so, so much missing. “Sweet dreams, yeah?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You’ll Be There, You’ll Know

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-real time experiment, canon compliant type fic, inspired originally by [x](http://polyamorouspuppypile.tumblr.com/post/36566066190/sslarrysettingsail-so-i-noticed-that-harry-had) and [x](http://direct-news.tumblr.com/post/36560749010/harry-styles-at-jfk-airport-in-nyc-asked-about). Title from [Savannah](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzp5bindXfQ) by Relient K- we recommend listening to the song as you read.
> 
>  

“I told Liam to be nice but not overbearing,” Louis says, zipping his hoodie up to Harry’s breastbone. “And Nialler’s always up for a cuddle, so. Take advantage of that.” He wiggles his brows up at Harry, who nods, chewing on his toast.

 “Zayn gets an extra day with Perrie,” Harry says through his mouthful, and Louis gives him a tight-lipped little smile and a nod. “‘re you gonna stay in, then?”

 Louis shrugs, scrunching his nose. “Yeah, I think. Watch X-Factor, tweet about it. Y’know.”

 “Right,” Harry nods, hanging his head a little. He has a long day ahead of him- a Louis-less day, at that- and the thought of having to deal with loud, prying strangers exhausts him, already. Still, he smiles down at Lou, pulls up his hood and inhales conspicuously. Louis makes a little sound, something like an aborted, reluctant _stop_ they both know he doesn’t really mean, and brings a hand up to the back of Harry’s neck to pull him in for a kiss.

 “Be good,” he says, mumbled into Harry’s lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 ;

 The airports are as loud as expected- Heathrow has a few familiar faces, the more polite of the paparazzi and a few of the fans they’ve grown to lovingly call the Stalkers, who tend to spring up nearly everywhere they go as if by act of magic or really impressive tracking skills.

 JFK isn’t LHR, though, and American paparazzi, much like American fans, tend to be much more of the yelling-about-rumours-in-your-face type.

 It’s the first time he hears it first-hand- he _knows_ it’s been circling the rumour mill, of course; they put it there for a reason and it’s taken like a plague, making its way from The Sun to the big American names, despite not having so much as a firsthand tweet or a picture to back their claims. They’ll eat anything up these days, and after all, all press is good press when you have a new album climbing the charts and an eight month tour already booked and, in Harry’s case, sold out.

 The bloke is holding a camera and there really isn’t a better word than _hungry_ for the expression across his features. “Harry!” He bellows, close enough to make him flinch, ”Are you really dating Taylor?”

 And he’d _expected_ it, really, but this is a big one, bigger than Cara or Emily or the whole parade of them and so it makes him stop for a fraction of a second as he hands back the Sharpie in his hand. He licks his lips and smiles at the girl in front of him- who can’t be older than twelve, maybe- and wonders, vaguely, why his number was up this time when Liam and Niall are barely a few feet away.

 He smiles tiredly at the girls trailing before him with iPhones. Blinks slowly, letting himself be led. Counts the steps to the car and turns back to wave a little, despite his heavy bones and cramped muscles and pounding head, because complaining isn’t becoming when you’re supposed to be on top of the world.

 ;

 Louis spends his night on the sofa at Harry’s new house. Technically, he’s not supposed to be there, or at least, not be seen there, but he’s mad about the flight changes. Even though it’s not a direct jab at them this time, he’s feeling spiteful towards the orders and schedules and “supposed-to-be’s.” 

 He watches X Factor and is too tired and grumpy to even be properly mad when Dermot announces that it’s Rylan going home- he sort of flicks his spoon and a glob of ice cream lands on Harry’s huge trunk-type coffee table, and he glares at it dolefully until it melts out of sheer terror. Or, y’know, the normal processes of science. Louis doesn’t much care. (He does wipe it up, of course. He’s not upset at _Harry_ , and Harry is exactly the type of person who would both get irrationally distressed about an ice cream stain on his antique furniture _and_ say he wasn’t just so as not to hurt Louis’ feelings.) 

 He gets a handful of texts from the boys, one from Liam that reads _why wont paul get us pizzzaa :(((,_ and two from Niall, echoing the pizza complaint and relaying that Harry had gotten mobbed at the airport when they got in. He even gets a series of texts from Zayn about Rylan, samosas, and something about ruffled panties; he’s not sure if the latter refers to Perrie, Danny or Zayn himself, but he figures from the winky faces that whichever it is, it’s a good thing. _cheers!!!!_ he sends back, finally, and arm pumps for the spirit of it. At least one of them is having a nice night stuck behind in jolly old England.

 But he doesn’t hear from Harry, which is both unusual and troubling, and he’s not quite sure what to do about it. If he’d simply passed out on reaching the hotel, Louis doesn’t really want to wake him; he’s not sure what time it is in New York, and it takes him way too long to figure it out in his head. By the time he does, he’s sufficiently concerned that he calls anyway. 

 Harry picks up on the fifth ring, right as Louis is about to end the call and try Liam instead, sounding rough and a little breathless. “Hi, hi, soz, was just- in the shower, h’lo.”

 “Hi,” Louis says, carefully, and waits a second- “s’everything okay? Nialler said things got a little rough at th’airport, and I hadn’t heard from you.” 

 “Nothing unexpected for America,” Harry chirps, which. Okay. “Lou, I forgot my shampoo at home, used some of the hotel stuff but it’s a little _too_ floral for my tastes, so um, could you bring some? Like, if you’ve room in your bag?”

 “‘Course,” Louis agrees, because they both know he’d take everything out of his own bag to make room for whatever Harry needed, anyway. “Maybe we can go shopping for new when I get there, too, we’re almost out I think. I’ll still bring it though.” Harry hums through the line, and Louis’ fingers clench around his phone. “Liam was saying something about pizza or the lack thereof, I take it things were shit enough you couldn’t stop on the way back t’the hotel?”

 Louis hears rustling and a muffled thud through the line, assumes Harry must’ve flopped on his bed, most probably starkers. “Lots of paps,” he says, in the tone Louis _knows_ is meant to sound casual. “There was this one little girl, Lou, something like eleven or twelve, and she couldn’t even speak, her mum had to ask to sign her shirt. She’s either crazy or the best mum ever, bringing her kid to some’n like that; it got really loud.” He pauses for a minute, exhaling, the dead giveaway, and then picks right back up- “Anyway, Paul let us order room service, ‘m waiting on a mac n cheese.”

 Chewing on his lip, Louis stares at the bare wall of Harry’s bedroom. The entire house is like this, in patches, naked, waiting, and it’s more obvious without Harry _here_. “Sounds good, that,” he says, because it’s all too obvious Harry doesn’t want to talk about the airport. “I had that take-out from a couple days ago? Indian. Not bad. Zayn’s mum made samosas, ‘parently, he offered but I didn’t wanna crash their big night, y’know.” 

 “Right,” Harry replies, yawns into the line.

 “Tired?” Louis asks, and he _knows_ the answer, but. Still.

 “Yeah,” Harry says, drags it out at the vowels. “Going out wasn’t really an option. There’s an XBox in Niall’s room so we did a bit of that, y’know? Didn’t wanna just go to sleep and fuck up the sleep schedule even more.” He yawns again, mumbling a tiny “sorry” after it, and adds, “Think I’ll crash after the mac n cheese, though, chuffed.”

 “Yeah, love, you sound it.” Louis himself is curled up as much as possible in the center of Harry’s bed, the duvet up to his nose, and he sighs as he has to move to turn off the lamp on the side table. “I’m sleeping at yours tonight,” he informs Harry, trying to find his way back into the nest he’d made of the several pillows Harry seems to delight in keeping around at all times. “Getting a tad bit drowsy m’self, should prob’ly go in a few.”

 Harry makes a happy little sound, followed by a sadder one, and Louis can just imagine him rolling around the hotel bed, still damp from his shower and having a small, self-contained fit. “M’s’you,” he mumbles, and Louis prides himself in being able to understand even the most unintelligible of Harry’s utterings.

 “You too,” he says, “It’s cold and I can’t work your heater.” He’s wearing a pair of Harry’s flannel pajama bottoms- some that Anne got him and that Harry occasionally wears around the house, though never to bed, and they help with the chill some, but he misses Harry and his sasquatch warmth and snuggling capabilities like crazy. 

 Louis thinks he loves Harry that bit more for not saying he should learn to control the heater, or get more blankets in the cupboard in the hallway, or learn how to sleep alone. “Should probably put on pants at the very least, m’food should be here soon,” he says, instead.

 “Probably,” Louis echoes, “Don’t want to shock any poor busboy. Or lurking fans. They’ve taken to video cameras through the peepholes, you know, would be a riot if they got an eyeful.” 

 “Hilarious,” Harry deadpans, but sounds like he’s smiling. “Okay.”

 “Okay,” Louis repeats, biting his lip.

 “Right,” Harry says, and Louis laughs a little.

 “I’ll be there t’morrow night, so. Don’t forget me?”

 Harry gasps mockingly. “I could never, Lou.”

 “Love you, Curly.” Louis drags his fingertips round the narrow sides of his phone, wishing that they didn’t have to play this game of dittos and “you too’s” and so, so much missing. “Sweet dreams, yeah?”

 “You too, Lou. I love you.”

 ;

 Harry’s meal arrives soon after- he’s had the decency of putting on a pair of boxers and Louis’ hoodie, at the very least, when he answers the door, and the hallway is blessedly deserted aside from the busboy. He folds his legs up under the down comforter, tray in his lap, and eats without even turning the telly on. When he’s finished, he places the tray on the floor outside his door, hangs the Do Not Disturb tag on the knob, and brushes his teeth. Once back in bed, he kicks off the boxers but keeps the hoodie, fingertips curled up over the sleeves.

 ;

 The call from upstairs comes at arse o’clock, but it’s not like Louis wasn’t ready, bags packed by the door. A car is on its way to get him in a half hour, and when he asks what prompted the time change, he’s told that everything has been moved back a whole day, to pack his best smile for Hasbro and the parade of interviewers they’ll be seeing at noon in New York.

  _fuck this shit_ , says Zayn’s text, seconds after he hangs up, and if Louis didn’t agree so much he’d cackle at his misfortune.

 He puts on the kettle and tugs his beanie on, leaning on the marble benchtop of Harry’s deserted dream house, and considers maybe shooting Harry a text, but then the kettle’s whistling and he can hear the car outside and all he really has time for is to tape over the cap of Harry’s shampoo bottle and pop it in his bag before stepping out into the nippy early morning.

 ;

 Zayn curls into his shoulder on the way to the airport, still warm from his bed and still grumpy over being dragged from it, and Louis resists telling him at least he _had_ a few hours of sleep (or not-sleep) with the ones he loves tonight. 

 It’s blessedly quiet at Heathrow, only a few heads perking up at the sight of them. It seems part of the early morning staff uniform is a paper cup of tea or coffee at hand at all times, and there’s mostly suits, businessmen in woolen coats and pressed shirts and too-tight ties that make Louis appreciate his job a bit more. At least he gets to go places in horridly mismatched striped tops and plaid flannel bottoms, and he gets his four favorite people in the world who are always, at least two out of four, up for a cuddle.

 He takes the window seat and they fly away from the sun, the sky cast in a sort of star-flecked purple light, Zayn dozing against him.

 ;

 They get in at nine in the morning and Louis and Zayn are shuffled in the back door of the hotel. Zayn is half asleep and Paul is mostly dragging him and his luggage, and Louis tugs at his beanie distractedly. There are fans in the lobby, but Paul sends Andy to the front desk as a distraction and they’re in the elevators by the time Andy radios Paul to say they were spotted. They get to the reserved floor and Paul pushes Zayn into his room, palms a second key card to Louis. Louis pockets it but follows Zayn inside the closest door. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up with Harry when he doesn’t stink of airport. 

 He crawls into the bed closest to the door while Zayn putters around the bathroom, bumping into the towel rack and occasionally swearing above the exhaust fan. Louis closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep.

 ;

 There’s knocking at Harry’s door around ten thirty, and he dreads the thought of it being Lou or Caroline- he’s been awake long enough to read a text from Paul ( _Everything’s been moved back a day, starting interviews at 1. Brief in the morning - Paul_ ) but not to question how they’ll be doing said interviews with two members of the band missing. He fishes around under the covers for his boxers and tugs them on, zips Louis’ hoodie that’s starting to smell more like him up to the birds on his chest.

 It’s Zayn, though, which at least means there’s four out of five. “Hi,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and Zayn grins before pushing past him to step into the room. He plops down on the armchair at the corner of the room by the window and won’t stop smiling, which is kind of odd considering he just woke up-

 But Harry’s the one who just woke up, not Zayn. Zayn isn’t even in New York, is he? He’s in London; he and Louis are flying in later and-

 There’s another knock.

 ;

 “You’re right about these bloody kettles,” Louis chirps when Harry opens the door, a mug in each hand. He’s in his plaid bottoms and a fresh t-shirt and his hair is damp and he’s certainly not in London, and he’s possibly the loveliest thing Harry’s ever seen.

 Harry _beams_. There's no running starts or pouncing or shouting, but Lou sets down the mugs on the desk to his left and presses their foreheads together, kisses Harry's cheeks and lips. 

 "You look good, love, hi." He grins and holds Harry to him tightly, a hand at his neck and the other arm around him to palm at the small of his back. He takes a second just to breathe him in, and Zayn clears his throat, mumbles about seeing if Nialler wants to go find breakfast. Harry barely hears the door click shut.

 Harry can't stop smiling, even when he scolds Louis, prodding at his ribs.  "Why didn't you tell me you were coming sooner?"

 "Thought you were probably still asleep, didn't want to disturb your beauty rest-" Louis smiles charmingly, if his eyes are a bit tired, touches Harry's cheek, "and see, it paid off."

 "Sap," Harry rolls his eyes, wraps a hand around Louis' forearm and pulls him to the bed, crawling under the comforter. Louis' chest constricts a bit- his side of the bed is still mostly made, pillow smooth and sheets tucked in neatly. He exhales carefully, leaning into Harry, letting his eyes drift shut. They've only got around an hour before they need to be up for styling, but that's all Louis needs, just a bit of time to soak up Harry and everything he's missed. "Y'okay?" he asks, tucking fingers into the waistband of Harry's boxers, hitching his thigh at Harry's hip.

 "Missed you," Harry says, fiddling with the drawstring of Louis' hoodie. "I'm... the airport really sucked yesterday, Lou," he admits, and Louis' worried eyes are all it takes to open the floodgates. "Lots of people, y'know, as usual, but like, the paps were..."

 "Pricks," Louis completes helpfully, and Harry nods.

 "Absolute twats, yeah. They were pushing the girls, standing in front of  them which made _them_ mad, and it was a loud lot to begin with. And then," he licks his lips, blinks quickly because his eyes feel damp and his throat's constricting and this shouldn't upset him as much as it does, "this one bloke, Lou, with a video camera- for some reason it was about me, yesterday, not Liam or Niall- he just steps up and puts the thing in my face as I'm signing a shirt, and goes, 'Are you dating Taylor?'"

 Louis is silent for a long moment, settling his head on Harry's chest and playing with the elastic of his waistband. He knows how this gets under Harry's skin sometimes, eats at him like nothing else about fame, and Louis can hear it in his voice. He finally lets his hand go still against Harry's side, just holding him, says, gently, "Are you?"

 Harry’s brows furrow and he taps his fingertips at Louis’ shoulder. “Am I what, Lou?”

 “Dating Taylor,” Louis says, patiently.

 Fingers stilling, Harry frowns. “You know I’m not. You’d probably know if I were dating anyone before I did.”

 “Okay, then.” Louis turns his face to press his lips just above Harry’s nipple, settles again. Like it’s that simple. And with Louis here, Harry can believe that it is.


End file.
